Dark Justice
by CaesarSpeaks
Summary: When the balance is disturbed and the forces of hell are set loose upon the Sharval Wilds, the Priests of Rathma have no choice but to rely on a powerful outcast to restore order. In the headlong rush to battle, a willful necromancer gains allies and enemies alike as he rushes to a confrontation between tradition and innovation and a choice between good and evil.


"The Balance has been disturbed. For such a crime, there can be no penance, save death itself."

Chapter I: Marauders in the night

A steady drum of rain battered the tarp over the covered wagon on the road from Westmarch. Inside, seated amidst the heavy cargo boxes and crates of mail stacked about the floor, three travelers jostled uneasily with each new bump and jolt of the wagon's wheels on the uneven road.

The old man, closest to the back, cocked his head, turning an ear toward the two frontmost passengers, a pair of sibling craftsmen who had joined the journey recently at the junction from Kingsport.

"You boys chose quite a month to venture north," he said, his worn hands gesturing at the tarp roof over their heads. "The rains are always worst this time of year. Where are you headed, anyways? To the East Gate? West into Khanduras?"

The carriage rumbled as the left wheels struck yet another uneven patch of mud, sending the padlock on the chest in the center of the wagon rattling against its weathered planks. For a long moment the two craftsmen remained silent, then the older brother, his eyes wary, ventured a reply.

"Farther north, sir, to the frontier settlements along the river south of the wildlands of Sharval," he said, wrapping an arm protectively around the shoulders of his younger brother.

The older boy couldn't have seen more than 17 winters, while his sibling was clearly not out of his first apprenticeship, based on the pattern of the wristband he wore, making him in his early teens, if not younger. The old man grunted, turned his head and spat out the back of the wagon with a snort.

"I wouldn't have thought of that, myself," he mused after a moment's pause. "But it makes sense; not much use for eastern wares in the desert lands out west, while your skills would likely make you fair commodities on the frontier … Yes, a wise choice, to go north."

The older boy couldn't suppress the swell in his chest as his younger brother turned to look up at him with an encouraging smile. It was clear the elder sibling had devised the plan himself, the old man thought, seeing the young man's pride at the old man's validation of his decision.

Mustering his courage, the youngest of the passengers also spoke up, and it was as if a floodgate had opened, the words that poured forth.

"Yes, sir, my brother here, Henry, he thought the same thing when our father passed, gone five years ago," the boy said. "Henry says to me, 'We shall go north, Thom, they will have need of our pots and weavings on the frontier, and we shall make of ourselves a fortune away from these crowded docks in the market district here in town.'"

Smiling, the older man leaned back against the bench, his tired back seeking relief against the stiff wooden backing as he listened to the boys tells their tale. Glad for the conversation after so many days alone on the road, the man was content to listen, interjecting only occasionally to clarify some point or offer some light encouragement for the boys to continue.

A well-placed "Oh, I see," and a few handfuls of, "Dear me, but that must have difficult!" carried them well around the now abandoned road to the ruin that was once Tristram on their way to East Gate.

As the wagon rounded a bend in the road along an abandoned homestead, a sudden flash of light stunned the company, followed seconds later by a distant rumble of thunder.

Startled, the old man cocked an ear up, his eyes squinting as Thom, the young boy, retreated into his brother's arms with a yelp.

"The storm is worsening," the old man whispered before turning once again to face the front of the wagon. "And worse, still, we appear to be stopping … Driver! What news? Why do you slow here? This countryside is beset by an evil history and we'd do well not to tarry here the night!"

Another flash of lightning jarred the wagon, and this time the thunder was much louder as the wagon listed lazily to the left, slowed almost completely to a halt.

"We're still three hours yet from the first caravan settlements outside East Gate, what the blazes is he thinking?" the old man muttered to himself, rising unsteadily to make his way toward the flap leading to the coachman's seat. "Hey! Driver!"

A heavy figure fell back into the wagon with a thud as the old man moved the flap aside, and the boys recoiled in horror as the corpse of the driver sprawled out between them, an arrow lodged deep into his right eye. A reddish-black ooze leaked from the wound and his right ear.

Outside a thin, wailing cry carried over the raging storm, the sound of hoofbeats clearly audible approaching from the east.

"Raiders!" the old man exclaimed in a harsh whisper, grabbing the young men before him and pulling them deeper into the center of the cart.

A moment later, a sharp blade tore through the fabric of the tarp, followed by another. Sawing through the flimsy material, the blades quickly removed the tarp entirely from the wagon, exposing its three terrified occupants to the cold rain from above.

Squinting out into the darkness, the old man could just barely make out the three riders surrounding the wagon. Two, both men by their frames, held swords painted black, while the third, a lithe figure sitting astride a smaller mount, held a bow, a quiver of arrows peeking over her shoulder.

All three wore wrappings over their heads and gloves of a fashion, the two men opting for heavier iron-studded gloves while the female archer donned thin, close fitting leather gloves that reached halfway up her forearm.

Leading his mount in a tight circle, the foremost rider eyed the three pitiful travelers briefly, then gestured curtly to his companions.

"I doubt we'll find much on them, but they may have some coins for passage. Kill them, search the bodies and toss them aside," he growled as the three bandits leapt down from their horses.

"And who the blazes made you our leader, Nils?" the second man asked irritably, adjusting his grip on his sword and eyeing the trembling passengers coldly.

"I'd rather him than your rock-for-brains, Brennan," the woman chimed in with a wicked laugh. "The best of the loot will be in them chests and such, but no sense leaving any witnesses, eh Nils?"

"Yeah, yeah," Nils replied, gritting his teeth. "Just make it quick, Kaera."

Lashing out desperately, the old man swung an extinguished lantern as Brennan, the larger of the men, reached a hand out for the older brother's shoulder, managing to land a glancing blow.

Snarling in anger, the robber backed off a pace, raising his sword.

"You'll regret that, codger!" Brennan roared, but the elderly traveler spotted the robber's eye dart over his shoulder a split second later.

Spinning around just in time, the old man managed to catch the second bandit, Nils, circling around the other side of the wagon. With a resounding CRACK! The bandit fell back with a howl as the heavy lantern smashed across his jaw.

Brave as the stand was, anyone could see it was futile. and, sure enough, Not a moment later, the female archer leapt up the back steps into the cart and sent old man sprawling to the floor next to the corpse of the driver with a hard blow to the back of his skull.

Prone on the wet floorboards, the old man found himself staring blankly into the left eye of the dead driver, a large man with a long, braided brown beard and thick, bushy eyebrows.

_If only he'd survived and not me_, the old man found himself thinking, listening sadly to the sound of a gauntleted fist slamming into the face of the teen craftsman and the pathetic whimpering of his younger brother.

_If only someone stronger had made it to help us, we might have stood some mad chance at escape …_

As he stared blankly at the corpse, hoping his death would be as swift, the graybeard was momentarily puzzled to see the dead man's pupil and iris slowly fading, as if a thick, white cloud was spreading out from the center of the orb.

A moment later, just as he slipped into unconsciousness, he was startled once more to see a muscle on the driver's coarse face begin to twitch.

"Quit your squirming, boy, or I'll miss your jugular and flay your nerves, you want to bleed out in agony or have a quick death?" one of the highwaymen was shouting, pinning the older boy to the floorboards as he lifted his sword. "Oy, Nils, give us a hand with this little bastard …"

Stepping over the unconscious grandfather, Kaera, the archer, knelt over the dead carriage driver. She always liked to inspect her kills and check her aim, especially when she shot in weather like this.

"What's the matter, Brennan?" she said, looking over her shoulder as her hand reached for the arrow lodged in the driver's face. "The little sprat giving you a run for your coin?"

And just like that, her wrist was in a vice, a cold, iron grip grasping her gloved arm and squeezing, tighter and tighter.

"What in … Brennan!" Kaera screeched a second later, terror and panic filling her words. "Nils! Oh, gods, no! No!"

Nils, leaning over the struggling teenager, glanced up over Brennan's back just in time to see the driver's right hand shoot up to Kaera's throat. Her eyes bulging wide in horror, the archer managed a single gurgled cry before the corpse's fingers tore away her windpipe, ripping her neck wide open and showering Brennan's back in a fountain of blood.

"Gods protect us!" Nils screamed, scrambling backwards as Kaera dropped and the carriage driver stood, the poisoned arrow still firmly lodged in his right eye, his left as blank and white as snow. "Hellfire! S-sorcery! We're damned, all of us!"

"What the hell's gotten into the two of you?" Brennan was shouting, his hand reaching behind his head to dab at the warm liquid dripping down the back of his leather jacket. "What's this? … Blood?"

"Brennan, by the holy alliance, behind you!" Nils shouted.

A second too late, the burly robber turned to watch the hulking corpse of the driver, looming over him, tear the poisoned arrow from his right eye socket. A putrid, green-black ooze spilled forth from the gaping wound as the remaining bandits stared in petrified horror.

Scrambling backwards, Henry grasped for his younger brother, clutching Thom closely as both tumbled over the edge of the cart and landing with a dull smack in the muddy earth of the worn roadway.

Above them, the driver swung wildly, the dart of the arrowhead slicing open the thick flesh of Brennan's cheek and searing his brain with an inexplicable pain. Overhead the lightening flashed yet again, dazzling the terrified onlookers.

"Brennan!" Nils screamed, his voice failing against the crashing roar of the storm.

By the time he'd regained his sight, Brennan lay dead in the cart next to Kaera's fresh corpse, the arrow lodged deep in the base of his skull.

Nils, besotted with fear and panic, edged further away from the nightmarish scene of the slaughter, his blackened sword left forgotten in the bed of the wagon as he watched the loutish corpse of the driver, still cradling Brennan's lifeless skull, slowly look up towards his cowering figure at the back of the naked wagon. As the thunder rolled, Nils, feeling the warm trickle of urine flooding his trousers, stared back at the face of death and sobbed silently.

"What … is this?" the bandit leader whispered.

The driver's face remained unmoved, implacable, as the lifeless body took an unsteady step forward. Its arms reached forth for Nils' neck.

"What are you?!"

"Death," came the whispered reply, almost in his ear, followed by one last, searing pain.

Falling forward into the wagon, Nils landed at the feet of the driver, his lifeblood spilling freely from the wound in his center chest. As the astonished robber felt the final, feeble beats of his heart pumping his blood onto the wagon-boards, the form of the driver slowly disintegrated before his eyes and a dark figure loomed above him, a loose lock of snow-white hair falling down from under the impenetrable darkness of his hood.

"Sleep now, and be judged for your sins," the man said, his words as chilling as ice.

Leaning down, the hooded, silver-haired man swept a gloved hand over the dead bandit's face, pinning his now lifeless eyes shut for the final slumber.

"_Gin-datara 'een khalis, ne eternalis."_

Looking up, his green eyes shining eerily against the backdrop of the dying storm, the mysterious figure caught the gaze of Henry, slumped over his whimpering younger brother.

"Fear not, young one," the man said softly, his teeth flashing from under his white beard and lips in a thin smile. "You are safe now."

Henry screamed.


End file.
